


Someone to Hold Me Up

by westernredcedar



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU from somewhere in Season 7 onwards, Angst, Character Death (it's Terry), EMT Ian Gallagher, Endgame Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Finding each other again, Good Sibling Iggy Milkovich, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Lip Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich Friendship, M/M, POV Alternating, They are both sleeping with other guys while apart but nothing explicit or serious, They love each other but have healing to do, Timeline What Timeline, canon typical swearing and slurs, mickey is out of prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: Just beside the shattered front window is a man, lying flat on his back, a pool of blood growing from his left side. Ian shouts to Sue.The man’s been shot. More than once.It’s Terry Milkovich.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 174
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got a bee in my bonnet to write some angsty h/c so here we are. This is definitely an AU, where seasons 1-5 have happened, but then there's a bit of a handwave over canon from Seasons 6 and 7 and then this diverges from there. Ian's an EMT and has been for some years and Mickey doesn't pull his escape but is out of prison for other reasons that will become clear. I'm imagining them both in their early twenties here, and they've been apart for a long time. 
> 
> I've tagged for the current chapter but characters and tags will evolve as I post new chapters.

Their rig is the first on the scene. The call had not been very specific; _major injury_ and _bleeding_ had come through from dispatch, as well as the fact that they had lost contact with the caller. An additional crew and a police unit are on their way, a couple of minutes behind. 

Sue is driving so Ian is out first to assess the scene. Looks to be an abandoned house, splintered siding covered in tags and front window busted out. No one out front.

“Anything more from dispatch about location?” Ian asks. 

“Nothing. Let’s take a look,” Sue says as she comes up beside him, geared up and ready.

The front door is open and Sue shouts into the place. It’s mostly empty in the one room Ian can see, just an old sofa and a mess of garbage on the floor. He steps in ahead of Sue, alert and searching. 

“EMS!” Sue shouts again. “Entering!”

Just beside the shattered front window is a man, lying flat on his back, a pool of blood growing from his left side. Ian shouts to Sue. 

The man’s been shot. More than once.

It’s Terry Milkovich. 

Ian stares, his brain trying to process the scene, Terry’s white hair and filthy t-shirt, his angry tattoos yelling at him from fists limp and still on the floor. Ian remains frozen long enough for Sue to radio in from his side, “Unit on scene. One victim, male, appears to be multiple gunshot wounds.”

The crackle of the radio. “Is the scene secure?”

Then Sue’s voice again, like it’s very far away. “Appears secure. Beginning triage,” then, “Let’s do this, Gallagher.”

Ian can’t move, can’t breathe. 

“Gallagher!” Sue’s voice cuts through Ian’s fogged brain. 

Ian gasps in a sharp breath. “I know him.”

“Shit, kid. That gonna be a problem?” she asks as she gets set up beside Terry’s prone body.

Ian’s prepared for this, they all are, for that chance you have treat someone you know. Someone you hate.

“No. Not a problem.”

He tries not to look at Terry’s face so he can stay focused as they do their assessment. Weak pulse, no breath sounds. Bag him, start compressions. He can do this, his job. Sue’s voice continues in its familiar patterns. Ian’s so fucking thankful for his training, for the years of practice that allow him to turn off his brain and just start working the scene. Sue voice, neutral and calm as she communicates with dispatch, keeps him grounded as he works.

Don’t think, don’t think. 

“Ian?” 

Both Ian and Sue startle up to look at who has spoken, losing their rhythm for a moment. 

A man has stumbled in from the back of the house, holding himself kind of awkwardly, hard to see clearly in the weird glare of the sunlight. Ian’s heart rockets, quickly eyeing the man’s hands to check if he’s holding a gun. 

His hands are empty, but his clothes are spotted with blood. 

“Ian Gallagher?” The man’s voice is reedy and quiet and hard to hear over the pounding of Ian’s heart and Sue’s huffing as she exerts herself with compressions. 

“Shit. Iggy?” 

Sue stops for a moment. Her eyes meet Ian’s and he shakes his head at her, not exactly sure what he’s communicating. Whatever she thinks, she grabs her radio and calls in quietly, “Second person located on scene. Backup can get here any fucking time now,” and then immediately starts working again.

Ian’s hands seem to be continuing their steady work with the bag, keeping the patient alive for the moment. Iggy Milkovich wanders closer. Ian focuses on the job in front of him to avoid the gaping chasm of panic that has opened at his feet. 

“Is he dead?” Iggy says, his voice still floaty. He’s staring at his dad like he’s a strange spot on the carpet.

“What happened Iggy? Were you the person who called 911?” 

Iggy nods. “Drive by. From a car. They just fucking started shooting at us.”

Ian’s skin floods with ice and his eyes dart out the front window. Fuck. He can hear Sue echoing the information in a rapid, terse voice into her radio. 

“Anyone else still around?” Ian asks.

Iggy shakes his head no, and then he goes a little wobbly, like he might fall over.

“Fuck, Iggy, sit down. Are you hit?”

Iggy collapses down on the ratty old couch behind him. “I don’t know,” he says. 

“Listen, Iggy. Lay down, man. Can you check yourself? See if you’re hurt. More help is on it’s way okay. So just hold on.”

Ian returns his attention to the patient in front of him. Terry’s skin is growing increasingly grey, and the volume of blood on the floor is ominous. There’s not much more they can do. This situation has spiraled so fast Ian can’t even think.

“Holy shit, I’m hit,” Iggy announces from the sofa, like he can’t believe it. “My leg.”

“Can you press your hand against the wound, Iggy?” Ian says. “Maybe use your shirt or something.”

“That’s so weird. It doesn’t hurt. Why don’t it hurt?”

Ian hopes he’s keeping his growing alarm out of his voice. “Sometimes your body can be cool like that, Iggy. It’s trying to protect you.” 

Iggy nods and leans back, his voice drifty and contemplative. “Never been shot before, you know. Not like Mickey. He’s been shot twice.”

Ian’s body is already flooded with adrenaline, but somehow Mickey’s name still hits his system like a punch. “Yeah, I know,” he manages to say, still steadily pumping air into Terry’s lungs.

He hears sirens, thank fucking god. 

“Where you been anyway, Ian?” Iggy’s gauzy voice steamrolls on from the sofa, right into Ian’s guts. “Thought I’d see you around once Mickey got out. You guys were always hanging out.”

Ian’s brain goes to white fuzz, his hands working on their own accord. _Once Mickey got out._ “Keep that pressure on, Iggy. Help is almost here.” The sirens are on the block now. Their radios are blowing up with units descending on the place. 

“Best friends,” Iggy continues as if he hadn’t even heard Ian, laughing a little to himself. “Weren’t you, like, best friends?” He sounds far away. 

_That's one thing we were,_ Ian thinks, or maybe he says it out loud.

Iggy’s gone quiet on the sofa. 

“Iggy? Iggy, keep talking, man.”

“Additional units coming in,” Sue says, her voice strained with effort. 

Suddenly there are people everywhere, lifting Terry onto a stretcher for transport, surrounding Iggy on the sofa. A blurry cop asks Ian questions that he answers through a white haze. 

_Mickey._

Sue taps his shoulder and with a hard look brings him back. 

“Get to the rig, Gallagher. Think later.”

When he moves, Ian realizes the knees of his uniform are soaked with Terry’s blood. 

_Remember your training. Don’t look at his face. Do your job._ They follow the stretcher out. 

*

Mickey Milkovich knows how to pick up guys now. 

It’s fucking easy, actually, now that he’s started doing it on the regular: knows which shirt to wear, which club to hit, which corner to lurk in. Make ‘em take him to their place, never stay the night, no redheads. The rules are easy. 

He’s trapped now though, under a hairy fucking giant who apparently likes to take a hard nap after he fucks. The dude weighs a ton. Worth it though. The guy gave really fucking good head before he turned into a damn sandbag. 

Mickey’s phone starts buzzing from the pocket of his jeans, somewhere across the room. 

“Fuck, wake up asshole,” Mickey tries, trying to wrench himself out, shoving with his one free arm. His phone stops buzzing.

Mickey starts in with his leg, trying to wriggle free and maybe kick this douche in the nuts while he’s at it. The jostling must finally do something, because the giant inhales an enormous snore, rolls over off of Mickey, and curls up back to sleep. 

“Jesus.” Mickey hauls himself up from the bed and pulls on his boxers and jeans from their heap on the floor, pulls out his phone. A quick scan of recent calls says _Colin_. Fuck would that idiot want? Mickey has no interest in talking to his moron brother about whatever stupid shit he’s gotten himself into when he’s freshly fucked and wants a burger and some sleep. He’ll call him back tomorrow after work. Maybe.

Mickey pockets his phone and looks around for the rest of his clothes. Shirt on the floor of the bedroom, hoodie, socks, boots out in the living room. The giant has fucked taste in beer, but Mickey grabs himself two bottles for his trouble, along with a DVD of _Enter the Dragon_ that the guy had stupidly left out on the counter. His mistake for thinking Mickey wouldn’t be all over that Bruce Lee shit.

As he heads out of the giant’s building and into the warm fall evening, his phone starts buzzing again. 

*

Sue drives back from the hospital. The cop who’d talked to them after they’d transported Terry had released them back to the station to get cleaned up, but he’s stopping by for formal statements in an hour. A backup crew has been called in to cover the remainder of their shift so they can help with the investigation. 

Ian thinks all of this to keep himself from thinking about anything else, like how Terry didn’t have a pulse at all by the time they’d reached the ER, or how Iggy had gotten so quiet, or how Mickey Milkovich was once his best friend. 

Fuck. 

“Wanna talk now?” Sue asks as she drives. 

Ian startles at her voice. “Huh?”

“That was a lot, kid. You wanna talk about it yet?”

Ian isn’t even sure what he could possibly say. 

Sue glances over at him. “How’d you know them?”

Ian swallows down the novel that would be necessary to actually explain to Sue how many ways he fucking knows the Milkoviches. Instead he says, “Neighbors. When I was a kid.”

Sue shakes her head. “Sorry, Gallagher.”

Ian shakes his head. “Haven’t seen any of them for years.”

“Looked like the younger one might pull through,” Sue says, her voice so gentle Ian wants to hit something. 

Terry Milkovich is dying. Dead by now, Ian knows. There’s no coming back from the kind of damage. 

And Mickey’s out. Iggy’s been hoping Ian would come around or something. Is that what Iggy had said? Maybe he got that wrong.

“Anyone you should call? Let ‘em know what’s happened?”

Ian stares out the window and tries not to think about the way his pants are sticky against the skin of his knees. 

“Can’t think of anyone. Just ready to shower.”

Sue nods and doesn’t say anything more. 

*

Mickey’s feet tap against the ugly hospital flooring. The rude lady at reception had all but ordered Mickey to stay in this seat. His skin itches and he needs a fucking cigarette. Every time the sliding glass doors open, Mickey expects to see someone else from his family join him, Colin (where the fuck is he?) or Joey maybe, or Uncle Ronnie. But it’s never anyone he knows, just more sad slobs wandering into the ER on a Tuesday night.

He’s hungry and pissed off and there’s nowhere to put the fucking DVD he’s still holding. The doctors haven’t told him shit except that his dad and brother were both shot and he needs to just wait, which feels like a pretty bold fucking thing to expect of anyone.

A harried looking doc comes out after what feels like forever, flanked by a fucking cop. Great. 

“Mikhailo Milkovich? My name is Dr. Singh. Will you please come with us.”

Mickey’s shivers, staring at the cop, arms crossed. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

The doctor’s eyes meet his and everything slows down. The doc suddenly looks so understanding, and fuck, Mickey really doesn’t want to find out what this dude is gonna tell him. 

“For privacy, Mr. Milkovich. We’ll just go in here.”

Mickey likes handling things on his own; he’s had to look out for himself for his entire life. But for some fucked up reason his brain decides now is the time to wish he had someone at his side. Maybe someone who might help him stand up without swaying so he doesn’t look entirely like a damn fool.

Mickey digs his fingernails into his palms and doesn’t think about who he desperately wants here with him. He’s got this. His idiot brother, the asshole who’d called him in the first place, will be here any minute.

The little room they take him too reminds Mickey of prison. 

“Mr. Milkovich, your brother, Ignatius, was brought in with three gunshot wounds, one to the right leg and two that grazed his left arm. He’s in surgery right now, and his prognosis is good. He’ll likely need to spend a few days here to stabilize once he is out of recovery. You’ll be able to see him then.”

Iggy. Fuck. Mickey thinks he might need to puke. The cop is behind him, in front of the door, which is making it really fucking hard to listen. 

“Okay,” Mickey says, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say to that.

“Your father. Terry? Is that right?” The doctor looks up from his paperwork for a moment. 

Mickey isn’t sure what he’s asking. He’s not sure about anything right now. He can’t stop his feet from tapping. His hands feel so fucking empty, and where the fuck did he put that DVD anyway?

“Is Terry my pop you mean?” he asks, trying to refocus. “Holy shit don’t you know that? Yeah, he fucking is. What about him?”

And then the doctor tells him.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

Mickey spends the next two days at the hospital.

Iggy gets moved to a room on the eighth floor after his surgery. His leg is wrapped in bandages and elevated and he’s out for most of the first day. Mickey calls in to work, and it feels fucked that he’s not even lying that he’s having a family emergency. He sits in an uncomfortable chair by Iggy’s bed as he sleeps, watching daytime TV on a screen that’s mounted near the fucking ceiling. His neck cramps by early afternoon. A nurse offers him a pillow that helps a little. 

No other Milkoviches appear. Mandy sends him a cryptic few lines ( _That’s it then. Good riddance_ ) that make him think she’s at least heard about Terry. He never really expected her to show up. He texts Colin every hour, because shit, the dumbass somehow managed to call everyone in Chicago and their uncle to tell them what had happened, and then up and fucking vanished. He gets messages from various cousins that say things like _Sorry_ and _I’ll miss the bastard he threw the best ragers_ and a few angry ones like _happy now you faggot_ and Mickey deletes them all as soon as they land on his phone. 

Truth is, he hasn’t even let himself think about Terry, and isn’t sure he ever wants to again. 

He gets a greasy slice of pizza from the cafeteria when Iggy’s nurse suggests it and he realizes he hasn’t eaten for almost a full day. 

Sometime in the night, Mickey puts his head down to rest on the edge of Iggy’s bed and falls asleep. He knows this because he startles awake a couple of hours later, groggy and sour, to Iggy’s open eyes looking at him curiously, and a thin morning light coming in the window.

“Yo, you awake?” Mickey says, shaking his head and trying to roll out the kinks that he’s now magnified in his neck and shoulders. Fuck. Everything feels hollowed out and surreal. 

Iggy laughs a little and says, “Yeah, I think so.” His voice is slow and a little slurred. He’s on a bunch of painkillers.

“You’re in the hospital, man. Do you remember?” 

Iggy looks around as if the answer to the question might be somewhere in the room. “I don’t know.”

“You got shot.”

Iggy nods slowly, like that idea seems sort of familiar to him but also sort of ridiculous. “Okay.”

Mickey sits up, his legs tingling when he tries to move them. “Bullet nicked the bone in your leg. Docs told me.” Apparently Iggy’s injury is more complicated than when Mickey was shot in the leg and just had a bunch of muscle damage. 

“That blows,” Iggy sighs and Mickey nods. 

“Yeah. It does.”

They fall silent for a moment. Mickey is suddenly very aware that even though they’d lived under the same roof for most of their lives, he doesn’t really know shit about his brother. Not really. Not the shit that matters, like how he’s gonna handle all of this. Just a bunch of transactional bullshit, trying to survive. They don’t talk. And for the first time ever, that makes him fucking sad.

Suddenly Iggy startles up and looks Mickey right in the eye. 

“Is Pop dead?”

Mickey’s mouth goes dry, but Iggy doesn’t seem upset, just curious. It takes some effort for Mickey to get the words to come out of his mouth. “Yeah. He is.” Mickey hasn’t actually had to say that aloud to anyone yet.

Iggy nods and stares out the window. “Huh, yeah. He got hit bad. I remember that.”

Mickey tries hard not to imagine what Iggy had seen, but his mind is flooded with images anyway. A shudder runs through his whole body, which he covers by standing up and pacing the room. 

“You remember anything else?”

Mickey can see thoughts rolling around in Iggy’s head like a rock tumbler. “I don’t fucking know, Mickey.”

“It’s okay, man. You don’t have to.”

The room gets quiet again. Mickey stretches his arms, trying to release some of the ache and pinch from his shoulders. 

“Where the fuck is everyone?” Iggy asks in his drugged slur.

Mickey shakes his head. “I dunno. Been trying to get Colin’s ass down here but he’s bugged out or something. Can’t find him.”

Iggy looks at Mickey intently and Mickey thinks he’s never seen that expression on his brother’s face before. 

“It’s cool that you’re here, Mick.”

“Jesus. Don’t make it a fucking thing, huh.” 

“I won’t.”

Mickey grins. “Dumbshit.”

“Asshole.” Iggy adjusts himself around against his pillows like he might be heading back to sleep. “Least I’ve still been shot less than you. And no one ever shot me in the fucking ass cheek.”

Mickey flips Iggy off and feels better than he has since picking up Colin’s call. 

“Can’t believe I’m fucking gunshot, shit,” Iggy says, his eyes drifting closed.

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah you’re a lucky motherfucker. You bled like a bitch I guess. Passed out from it.”

“Yeah,” Iggy adds in his drifty voice, “Ian told me to put pressure on, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Who’s Ian?” Mickey asks before he thinks about it.

Iggy doesn’t open his eyes. “Ian. You know. _Ian_. Ian Gallagher.”

Everything freezes. Mickey’s pulse stutters and his skin prickles and his brain goes on a crazy loop of thoughts that all come back to the fact that Iggy is delirious and does not know what the fuck he’s talking about. 

He tries to shrug off his panic. “Ian Gallagher? When the fuck do you imagine Ian Gallagher told you this?”

Iggy opens his eyes for a moment, thinking. “He was there.”

Mickey snorts out a laugh, because he really doesn’t know what to do with this insanity. He stands up again and paces to the window, trying to shake the electricity out of his skin. “Oh right. Of course. Ian was there when you got shot. That makes a lot of fucking sense.”

“I remember talking to him, Mick.” But then he pauses. “I think?” 

“Why the fuck would Ian be there?”

“To take care of me?” Iggy mumbles. 

Mickey rubs his hand over his face, trying to dispel whatever madness is making Iggy say this shit. “You’re fucking high, Iggy.”

Iggy smiles. “Yes I am, Mick. They have me on the good stuff.”

“Exactly.” Mickey starts to get his breath back. He’s not sure why Iggy had been thinking about Ian, of all people, but he’s obviously mixed up some old memories with whatever ugly shit happened when he was shot, and now Mickey’s having to suffer for it. 

“Stop making stupid shit up and go back to sleep.”

“Okay, Mick,” Iggy mutters as he closes his eyes again. “That’s a good idea.”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to get his equilibrium. 

He doesn’t want to think about Ian fucking Gallagher anymore. He’s done enough of that for a lifetime.

*

Ian sleeps through most of his day off. Fiona hovers nervously around him when he wakes up in the early afternoon, asking him how he’s feeling and eyeing his prescription bottles, so he tells her about the horrible call the day before without sharing anyone’s name, just to get her off his back.

“Shit, Ian. You gonna be okay? That sounds awful.” 

Ian nods. He hasn’t even told her the worst part, the part where the biggest mistake of his past is suddenly staring him straight in the eye.

“I’m good. Just needed to sleep.”

“Tell me if you wanna talk or anything.”

She heads out to the diner for a swing shift. Ian settles in on the sofa to distract himself with bad TV. Anything to convince his brain to stop thinking _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey._

Sue texts him in the early evening. 

**Sue** _Thought you’d want to know that the young guy from the shooting yesterday pulled through. Your neighbor._

 **Sue** _Older guy didn’t make it though. Sorry. Cops just stopped by the station._

Ian stares at the words on his screen, reading them over and over, his heart pounding. 

He’s never been gleeful about someone’s death before. It feels ugly and shameful, but also like, in Terry’s case, he’s allowed. He wonders if Mickey knows yet. 

_Mickey. Mickey. Mickey._

Ian’s not sure what to do with the weird energy he has, so he gears up and goes for a long run, avoiding anywhere near the Milkovich house, just in case, though his feet consider taking him there more than once.

When he gets home, feeling a little more centered from the exercise, Carl, Lip, and Liam are hanging in the kitchen. 

Lip hands Ian a beer and says, “Hear the news?”

“What news?” Ian asks, though he suspects he knows. 

“Shooting down in South Loop?” Lip’s voice is gentle, which tells Ian everything he needs to know already. The word is out.

“They got Terry Milkovich eight times to the chest,” Carl says, his eyes bright. “Some other Milkoviches got it too.”

“Don’t know that for sure,” Lip adds quietly, which almost makes Ian want to cry. 

“You hear about it?” Carl asks. 

Ian considers lying for a moment, but Lip’s worried eyes change his mind. “Yeah. I already knew,” he says. “Was on the 911 call, actually.”

Carl’s eyes get huge. “What, like you were there?” 

“Yeah, me and Sue were first on scene.”

Ian looks down to avoid the alarmed expressions surrounding him.

“Holy shit, Ian.” Lip’s jaw is tense. His eyes are still dark and sunken and Ian realizes he should probably not be drinking a beer with him right there, even though Lip’s the one who gave it to him. 

“It’s fine. It’s my job.” He takes one more swig and then puts his beer bottle into the sink.

“You wanna talk about it?” Lip asks, sounding just like Fiona. 

Ian’s not sure why he can’t talk about it, why casually chatting about those long minutes in that run-down slum, his knees soaked in blood, feels like something private and significant that he’s not ready to share with anyone else, especially not his prying family. “Not really.” 

Ian can feel the eyes of his siblings on his back, all of them urging him to say more.

_Mickey. Mickey. Mickey._

“So,” Ian asks, “what’s for dinner?” 

*

Once Iggy’s deep asleep again, his daytime nurse, a short, bossy bear named Mel, convinces Mickey to go home to shower, nap, and change his clothes. If they were at a club and Mickey was drunk and not thinking about red hair and camo, he might consider letting Mel take him home. But he’s not at a club. Mel promises that if Iggy wakes up while he’s home that he’ll tell him that Mickey won’t be gone for long. 

Mickey’s hardly seen Iggy for the last few years, so he’s pretty fucking confused by how much he doesn’t want his brother to wake up alone.

The L takes Mickey straight back to his place, a shitty, postage stamp studio on the top floor of an old building in Canaryville. It’s not much more than a bed, a bathroom, and a mini-fridge, but it’s his place and it’s just far enough away from everything he wants to avoid back home. Terry. And other shit.

 _Terry’s dead_ , Mickey’s brain helpfully reminds him.

Fuck.

He takes a long, hot shower and then collapses on his bed and sleeps hard for two hours. 

When he bolts back awake, breathless and sweating, it’s from a surreal dream about war; all he can really remember is that there were people there that he needed to save, and couldn’t. 

He rubs the sleep from his face and grabs for his phone. He can’t fucking stand this, the way his brain won’t let him stop thinking about his brother’s insane delirium fantasy. 

**Mickey** _Hey fuckface. I’ve been at the hospital with Iggy._

He doesn’t expect a response- he knows she wants to avoid family shit maybe even more than he does- so he’s surprised when his text alert pings a minute later. 

**Mandy** _Tell him I hope his dick wasn’t shot off._

Mickey snorts. 

**Mickey** _Will do._

 **Mickey** _His leg’s fucked up. And one arm._

 **Mickey** _And he’s still a dumbass._

He thumbs in another text, trying hard not to think about it before he hits send. 

**Mickey** _He said some weird shit today. About Ian Gallagher._

He throws his phone down before he can regret what he’s sent, and goes to rinse off once more and get dressed. 

When he gets back, zipping up his hoodie, Mandy has replied.

 **Mandy** _Weird like what?_

 **Mickey** _Like that Ian was there after he got shot._

Mickey stares at his screen for what feels like ever, waiting for Mandy to send him a laugh emoji or a middle finger or an insult in response to his stupidity.

Instead, when her reply comes, it makes his breath stop. 

**Mandy** _He’s an EMT now so maybe he was?_

Mickey sits down on the edge of his bed to read Mandy’s words a few times. It’s the first actual news he’s had about Ian’s life in over three years. He feels like he might puke. 

Ian could have been there with Iggy. With _Terry_. Mickey’s guts hurt.

He pockets his phone without responding. He needs to get back to the hospital. Fuck this fucking shit.

*

Ian ends up collapsed on the bed in his room, staring at the familiar patterns of the crack in the ceiling. His family had mostly let him be during dinner, aside from worried glances and an obvious avoidance of any talk about the neighborhood gossip about the shooting. He's just tired. It's normal to feel low after a working a scene of violence. He knows this.

His text alert rings into the quiet of his thoughts. 

**Ronan** _Wanna meet up?_

He’d met Ronan at a bar a few weeks ago. They’d hooked up once; nothing mind blowing, but a decent distraction. And if Ian needs anything right now, it’s a fucking distraction. 

**Ian** _Sure. When and where?_

It had just been a tough day at work, not some harbinger of fate. He'd tried to help some people who were hurt. They didn't all make it. That's the job. 

Still, as he pulls on his shoes and grabs his wallet and keys to go meet Ronan, Ian’s heart still beats out a rhythm. _Mickey. Mickey. Mickey._

*


	3. Chapter 3

Ian intends to move on. He really does. 

He works two twelve-hour shifts over the next two days, avoids his family, and attempts to sleep. The crack in the ceiling gets more of his attention than Liam does. The only thing that actually works to distract him from the steady pulse of his blood is work, where he jumps on every call he can, trying to erase that day and reset. Just move on. 

Lip finally corners him on the back steps. 

Ian’s been retreating outside after dinner to nurse his one nightly beer. Most of what he knows about AA is from TV shows and rumor, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be flaunting his beer in Lip’s face when he’s only just started going to meetings regularly. 

When Lip comes out to join him, Ian tucks his bottle in next to his hip and folds his hands on his lap. 

“Chill, man. I can see a beer bottle without lunging for it.” Lip pats him on the shoulder and settles in on the step next to him. 

Ian cringes a bit at his own assumptions, but he leaves the beer where it is. “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “That all going okay?” 

Lip looks out at the yard, then shrugs. “Guess so.”

Ian tries not to worry about the dark circles under Lip’s eyes or the flat tone in his voice.

“That’s good.”

Lip sniffs and pulls out his cigarettes. “You doing okay?” he asks, lighting up.

“Course,” Ian says, response automatic. 

Lip holds out the pack of smokes to Ian. 

Ian eyes them, his fingers itching. “Nah, I’m trying to quit.” 

Lip takes a drag and frowns at Ian. “Since when?”

“Last couple of days.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” 

Ian’s been badgered by Sue’s judgmental rants at him for over a year, that he’s a hypocrite for caring so much about his health in some ways- exercise, hygiene, staying on his meds- while being a fuck up about his health in other ways- smoking, unsafe sex, crappy diet. (Shit, maybe Sue knows way too much about his life.) 

He’s not sure why he feels like he can do it now, but some switch flipped while he was washing blood off his knees and trying not to remember the feel of rough fingers as they passed a smoke between them. 

“Dunno. Heard a rumor those things might be bad for you,” he says. 

Lip pockets his pack and leans back to take a long drag. “Some of us have to choose the lesser of two evils.”

“Yeah.” Ian nods. “Trying not to jones too hard on your second-hand shit, though. Smells good.” 

Lip wafts smoke towards Ian’s face and Ian makes a little show of inhaling it with a contented sigh. They both laugh a little. 

“You really okay, bro?” Lip says after a brief silence. “You’ve been kind of… absent.”

A whole monologue of evasion runs through Ian’s mind, a catalog of misdirection he’s been reciting to the crack in the ceiling in the wee hours of the night to try and get his mind to rest. But Lip’s let him talk before, and maybe he’d feel better if he’s just honest?

“Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mickey,” he says, before his nerves get the better of him.

His admission hangs there between them for a bit. Lip smokes and Ian listens to the rhythm of his heart. 

“You wanna hear something weird?” Lip says into the thick air. “I have too.”

Of all of the responses he’d imagined from his brother, this one catches Ian completely off-guard. His eyes grow hot. 

Lip jumps back into the silence. “All I’m saying is, that shit that went down with his dad and brother? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Been wondering how he’s doing.”

The lump in Ian’s chest feels like a boulder. He nods and manages to croak out a, “Yeah.”

“You gonna go down and visit him?” 

It takes Ian a moment to clear his throat. “Actually, he’s out. He’s not in prison anymore. Iggy told me.”

“Oh. Jesus,” Lip says, and Ian can hear just how quickly Lip understands how much that information has messed with him over the last few days. “You didn’t know?”

Ian shakes his head. “If I was him, I wouldn’t want to see me either,” he says. It’s the thought that keeps him up all hours of the morning. He can’t come back from how deeply he’s fucked up with Mickey. 

Lip taps some ash over the railing so that it wafts into the night. “Look, it’s none of my business, but I don’t even know how you left things with him. When he got locked up.”

Ian thinks about the last time he’d visited Mickey in prison, when he was still reeling from his diagnosis and trapped in his own miserable head. When he’d thought they were broken up but Mickey had inked his name on his fucking chest and asked him to wait. 

“Confusing. That’s how we left it. Fucking confusing.”

Lip nods in quiet understanding and doesn’t say anything more. Ian loves him a whole fucking lot for that.

“I don’t even know where he is if I did want to see him. Which I don’t. Shit. I don’t know.” Ian gives in and grabs his beer from where it’s tucked in at his side and takes a long pull. 

“Ian?” Lip says, real serious, taking a drag off his cigarette. Ian’s heart plummets into his knees at the tone in Lip’s voice. He knows he’s being an idiot. He needs to move on, get back to his perfectly functional life. Now Lip is gonna tell him exactly that, and he’ll be right. 

“What?”

Lip stares at him, then exhales his entire lungful of smoke right into Ian’s face. 

Ian closes his eyes at the sting and pinches his lips together, because, fuck, Lip really just did that. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to Lip’s smug, self-satisfied smirk.

“Better?” Lip asks.

Ian shakes his head and mutters, “Fuck you,” though he doesn’t mean it at all, and then lunges over to try and grapple Lip into a headlock. Lip laughs at him and dodges and Ian tries not to grin too obviously. 

“What? You liked it before!” Lip protests.

Just then Lip’s text alert sounds, and then just after, Ian’s does as well. They both pull back from the tussle to see who needs them both at seven in the evening. 

It’s Fiona. She’s at the hospital. 

*

Iggy is scheduled to be released on the afternoon of his fourth day in the hospital to recover at home and start physical therapy, but while Mickey is at work he takes a nose-dive: fever, delirium, sweats. Mel the nurse calls Mickey. Mickey clocks out early and calls his supervisor, Otis, to explain that he has to take more time away for his family. Otis says no problem and even asks Mickey if he needs anything, like he cares or some shit.

It makes Mickey’s stomach roil to have to get fucking permission to take care of his own business, but he does it, because. Because.

When he gets back to the eighth floor, Mel stops him at the desk and walks back to Iggy’s room with him. 

“So what’s going on?” Mickey asks, disturbed by the worry he hears in his own voice.

“Your brother has developed an infection,” Mel says in his blunt but caring tone. “The doctor has him on strong antibiotics, but he’s still pretty out of it.”

Mickey’s already been dully panicking about what to do with Iggy when he’s released; there’s hardly room for himself in his tiny apartment, and he has no idea where Iggy has been staying recently. He could take him back to the old house, but whoever the fuck is living there will at the very least make Mickey have to think about Terry again, and he’s really been working overtime to keep that particular subject at bay. 

Now Iggy’s worse. Fuck. Mickey’s only just started to feel like he can be responsible for his own shit.

“He’ll need to stay a few more days. Hopefully the infection can be controlled within the next twenty-four hours and we can still get the two of you home soon.”

Somehow, and for no reason that Mickey can fathom, his sprawling family has narrowed to just the two of them, just him and Iggy. He still hasn’t even managed to unearth Colin from whatever hole he’s hunkered down in, and Mandy remains disembodied texts on his phone. 

Mickey’s always been fighting through life alone, but this week he really feels it. 

Unprovoked, his brain cycles back to a day, so fucking many years ago now, when Ian had kissed him on the cheek, so soft, right in the middle of the living room, Iggy standing right fucking there. Mickey shakes away the thought as he and Mel arrive at the room.

“I’ll get you a new pillow so you don’t hurt your neck again,” Mel says gently as Mickey opens the door. 

*

It’s Frank, of course. He’d collapsed at the garden center at the end of his shift. 

Fiona’s waiting for Ian and Lip by Frank’s bedside, looking harried and worried. Frank hasn’t been moved upstairs yet, but apparently they are finding a bed so that he can stay under observation for at least a night. He’s sound asleep, looking old and worn out in his hospital gown, snoring softly.

“What happened?” Lip asks, his voice quiet. 

“He’s severely dehydrated. Complaining of chest pain, lost consciousness,” Fiona says, reciting like a woman who’s spent more than her share of time hearing diagnoses in the emergency room. “They are checking his heart and monitoring his kidney function while they get fluids in him.”

Ian shakes his head. The dysfunction in Frank’s body is well beyond anything he’s learned as an EMT. “Maybe when he got sober he forgot he was still allowed to drink water.” 

Fiona rolls her eyes and punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not.”

The attending comes in then, a doc Ian knows from work, her eyes registering a moment of surprise and recognition upon seeing him. 

“Gallagher, hey. Frank’s your father?” she asks, like she and Frank go way back.

“You know Frank?” 

She runs her hands under the tap and scrubs them with soap as she says, “Worked this ER for sixteen years, kid. He’s one of my regulars.”

“Oh. Right.” Ian feels like a specimen under a microscope.

“This is our brother, Lip,” Fiona says, when it’s clear that Ian isn’t going to say any more. 

The doctor nods in Lip’s direction. “He’s stabilized for now,” she says, wiping her hands and approaching the bed. “He told us he’s been clean for a while now. That sound accurate to the three of you?”

Ian feels himself grudgingly nod as Lip says, “Maybe. We never know with Frank.”

“Well, he’s put his body through a lot over the years, so an episode like this is not surprising,” the doc adds. “With a transplant patient we don’t want to take any chances. It’ll take a few hours for a bed to be available upstairs so we can keep an eye for the night, do a few more tests. Do you have any questions?”

Ian stares at Frank’s lined face, and thinks of all of the questions he could ask, like, _Why is he like this?_ or _What did we do to deserve this shit?_ but instead he just says, “Not right now.” 

Fiona folds her arms and frowns, then gently shakes her head. Lip drapes an arm over her shoulder and she leans against him for a moment. 

“Okay. Press the call button if you need anything,” the doc says. Her eyes meet Ian’s for a moment and he hates how much she must think she knows about him now. 

There’s a moment of quiet after the doctor leaves as they all resettle their thoughts. 

Fiona sighs. “I’ll call into the diner. I’m supposed to be there. I have a shift starting.”

Ian is still staring at Frank, at how aggravatingly peaceful he looks as he sleeps. “Nah. You should go to work. Don’t let him fuck that up for you. I’ll stay,” Ian hears himself saying. “I don’t have a shift tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to do that, sweetface” she says, her eyes so soft.

It occurs to Ian that since Fiona’s call, his mind has been blissfully free from the steady pulse of _Mickey Mickey Mickey_. 

“It’s fine. You can both go. He’s just sleeping. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“You sure, man?” Lip says. 

Ian loosens his scarf and starts to unbutton his coat. He’s staying. “They won’t let me smoke in here, right? Just trying to help my weakening resolve. It’s for my own health.”

Lip’s mouth quirks up into a little grin. “Okay, asshole.” Lip looks down at Frank. “Don’t accidentally smother him with a pillow.”

“No promises.”

*

It’s late and Mickey is settled into the chair next to Iggy’s bed reviewing notes on his phone when a call comes through. Colin, fucking _finally_. 

“Where the hell are you, fuckhead?” Mickey answers, keeping his voice low. Iggy’s asleep.

“Mickey, hey.” Colin’s voice is distant, like he’s got Mickey on speaker.

“Don’t give me that _hey_ shit. Get your ass to the hospital and help. I’ve been here for days.” Mickey has seen Colin even less than Iggy over the last few years, but last he’d checked his brother was still able to walk and drive and get himself to the damn hospital.

“Can’t, man. I’m in Montana.” 

Mickey’s mind goes numb. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at them for a moment to try and process this next level bullshit. “Montana? What the fuck?”

“I was supposed to be at that drop with Pop, Mickey. Not Iggy. I was fucking hungover so I asked Ig to go instead.”

Mickey resists throwing his phone against the wall. “What the fuck does that have to do with Montana?” 

“Doesn’t. But more I thought about it… don’t want to get shot, man. Is Iggy pissed at me?”

“No. I’m pissed at you.” Jesus. Mickey stares at his brother, pale and struggling in his hospital bed, skin still flushed and damp from fever. No one else is coming.

“Mick,” Colin says, his voice suddenly quiet, “is it true?” 

Mickey doesn’t have to ask to know what Colin wants to know. “He’s dead, man. Yeah.”

It’s quiet on the phone for a long time and then Colin says, “Then I don’t think I’m ever coming back, bro.”

Mickey hangs up on him. 

Iggy groans and tries to roll over in his sleep. He’s trapped in place by his elevated leg so he thrashes around for a moment until he settles back down with a sigh. 

Mickey looks down at the phone in his hand and scrolls to a number he hasn’t even looked at in years. It’s probably been changed and he’s certainly not about to call it, but it makes him feel weirdly calm to know that it’s still there in his phone. _Gallagher_.

Outside in the darkness, the city lights stare back at him in judgment. 

*

Frank doesn’t get moved into a room until after five in the morning. Ian’s hope that taking point in the emergency room might distract him from everything else in his life proves sheer idiocy. If anything, now he’s stuck in silent contemplation with nothing to do but stare at Frank and allow his own thoughts to spiral in maniacal circles of doom. 

He should find Mickey. He shouldn’t. If he finds him, what would he even say? He plays out entire scenarios in his head, some that end with a tattooed fist cracking into his nose, others that end with Mickey’s tongue down his throat. None of which could ever be real. Mickey’s psychotic father is dead. Ian watched him die. Why the fuck would he want to see Ian ever again? 

He makes a couple of trips out to the vending machines for soda and chips. He doesn’t sleep at all. 

_Mickey Mickey Mickey._

Frank wakes up for a few minutes when they roll him upstairs, just long enough to see Ian, say something insulting (“Just you, huh? Guess all the other fruit of my loins have better things to do than help their old man in a time of need.”), and complain about how cold his ass is in his hospital gown. The nurse assisting in the move meets Ian’s gaze, raises her eyebrows, and takes over before Ian has to say anything in reply. 

“We’ll get you all warmed up when we get to the room, Mr. Gallagher,” she says. “You leave this young man to me. I’ll have lots of blankets for you, all toasty.”

Frank looks at her with exhausted eyes. “You, madam, are an angel sent from heaven.” 

Ian rolls his eyes and the nurse smiles at him and gives him a conspiratorial wink. 

Once Frank’s settled into his room, Ian leaves him snoozing again and tells the nurse that he’s heading out for some fresh air for a few minutes. 

The hospital itself feels like it’s just waking up. Lights are turned on, more voices can be heard, and a parade of competent looking folks with name badges, practical shoes, and coffee cups seem to be arriving all at once. 

Ian’s that bone-deep level of tired that feels almost like being well-rested. 

He makes it to the front lobby and out the sliding glass doors to where cars are idling in the driveway waiting for pick-ups. He very intensely does not smoke a cigarette, even though every cell in his body screams at him for a fix. In his exhausted delirium, he sees a man walking away about a half a block down, and something about the slope of his shoulders and the strut of his stride almost makes him shout, “Mickey!” as if Mickey might really just be there, conjured out of his midnight fantasies.

Fuck. 

The information desk in the lobby is just being opened by two slightly groggy looking men, one of whom Ian swears he remembers from his days dancing in Boystown. Neither of them look up as he approaches.

“How can we help you, sir?” 

Ian isn’t sure what he’s going to say until he says it. 

“I’m here to visit a friend, but I don’t know his room number.” 

“Okay then,” the familiar looking man says, draping his coat over his chair and logging into his computer. “Name?”

Ian swallows hard. “Iggy Milkovich.”

Each gentle clack of the keys echoes in Ian’s chest. What the fuck is he even doing right now? “Ignatius Milkovich? Room 827. Take the east elevators.”

When the man finally looks up at Ian’s face, a slight widening of his eyes tells Ian that he’s been recognized right back. Heh.

“Thanks,” Ian says with a little smile. His heart pounds.

When he steps into the elevator a minute later, Ian stares at the buttons like they are a bomb he has to diffuse, and he doesn't have a fucking clue which one he's going to push.

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

Ian steps out onto the eighth floor trying to look like he knows what he’s doing. He wishes he’d thought to wear his uniform; at the hospital it feels like armor, protection, proof he belongs. But he hadn’t planned to do any of this. 

He follows room number signs. When he walks up to a nurses’ station, a short, cute man with a trim beard meets his eye. 

“Can I help you find someone?” he asks. 

The rock of panic lodged in Ian’s chest makes it hard to speak. “Um. Visiting a friend. Room 827?”

The man’s face lights up. “Oh Iggy! That’s great. He hasn’t had any other visitors. And he’s doing so much better this morning. Do you know where to go?”

Ian points at a sign on the wall. “This way?”

“Yep. Close to the end of the hall on the left.”

Ian thanks him and heads down the corridor, his heart thumping with each step. He tries to breathe to calm himself; he’s just here to check up on a former patient. But the knots in his stomach know better. 

The door to room 827 is slightly ajar. Ian knocks very gently. 

“Yeah, come in.” 

If he opens the door and steps through, that feels like an irrevocable step. He can still turn around and leave, no one the wiser. 

Ian takes a deep breath, pushes the door open, and peers in.

Iggy Milkovich is lying in a rumpled bed in a room that has the lived-in feel of a long hospital stay; it has been five days since the shooting. His food tray is littered with old pop cans and a half finished sandwich. A few toiletries are resting on the edge of the sink. A couple of large books and a blanket and pillow have been left on a chair in the corner. 

Iggy sits up a bit as Ian steps in and stares at him for a long moment. “Ian?”

“Hey, Iggy. How are you?”

Iggy’s face scrunches up into a squint and then he opens his eyes wide like he’s having some sort of epiphany. “Holy shit,” he shouts. “I fucking _knew_ it!” 

This is not the reception Ian was expecting, so he stands stiffly in the doorway, hands digging deep into his pockets. He can’t quite see the whole room but he’s pretty sure no one else is there. 

“God, that asshole made me feel like I was such a moron.”

“Who?”

Iggy just barrels on. “That was you, right? You were there? I knew it.”

It takes Ian a moment to realize he’s been asked a question. 

“Um, you mean…?” Ian gestures awkwardly, unsure what to even say. 

“We talked, right? When I was shot? That was real?” 

Oh. Ian nods. “Yeah. That was real.” Blood soaking his knees.

“Fuck. Yes.” Iggy practically does a fist pump and looks so pleased that Ian can’t stop himself from smiling a little. He steps a little further into the room near the end of Iggy’s bed.

“You don’t remember, huh?” Ian asks.

“Nah, not everything. Kind of a blur.”

“Makes sense.”

The Iggy Ian had known years ago was never one for self-care, always a little greasy and few days past when he should have showered. He doesn’t look great now, lying in a hospital bed hooked up to IV with his leg and arm in thick bandages. But it also looks like someone has recently combed his hair and maybe even given him a shave. 

“What are you doing here?” Iggy asks.

Right. Good question. “I came to check up on you.” Just following up with a former patient.

“Damn. That’s crazy.”

“How are you doing?”

“Pretty fucking shitty I guess,” Iggy says, settling back against his pillows. “Don’t even remember the last day cause I was all wasted with an infection or something. But I feel fucking good today.”

Ian nods. “Infections can be nasty.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Iggy snorts out a little laugh. “When I’m out of here, I’m definitely gonna be stocking more antibiotics. Who the hell cares they don’t get you high. People fucking need that shit.”

Ian grins. “You turning into a humanitarian now, Iggy?”

“Ain’t a fucking alien, so maybe,” Iggy replies. Then he shrugs and adds, “Always kept some Lithium in stock after you.”

That knocks the air right out of Ian’s lungs. “Oh,” he manages.

“You doing good now?” Iggy asks. “With all that shit from before?”

Ian makes himself nod, wondering how they’d so quickly wandered into a minefield. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says. Then, before Iggy can say anything else about the past, Ian hears himself blurt, “I’m sorry about Terry.” 

He’s actually not in the least sorry, but it seems like something to say.

“Yeah, weird shit, right?” Iggy replies. Then his expression falls still and he looks at Ian with an intensity Ian has never seen on his soft face before. “Hey, man, you won’t say anything to Mickey about all that, will you?”

Ian’s whole body vibrates at the mention of Mickey’s name. It’s good to know he’s in a hospital because he’s fairly sure his heart is not going to survive this misguided visit. 

“I don’t... about what?” he stutters.

Iggy shakes his head real gently as he speaks, so softly. “How I pussied out.” Iggy’s eyes drift over to the door like he’s afraid someone else might be listening. “I mean, fuck, there was so much blood and he was hit so bad. Couldn’t even look at him. Had to go to the other room to even call you guys.” 

Ian feels his shoulders drop and some of the fear and fight go out of him in the face of this unguarded confession.

“You were in shock, Iggy. You’d been shot.”

“But there was shit I should’ve done, right? CPR or something?”

Ian’s heart aches at the guilty tone in Iggy’s voice. “Nah, man. You did the right thing by calling. My partner and I did all of that shit, Iggy, and it didn’t make any difference. There wasn’t anything you could have done. He was hurt too bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. You did good.” 

Iggy doesn’t look convinced, but he does relax back onto his pillows again like he’s mulling things over. “Huh. You still won’t say anything to Mickey, though, will you?” 

Ian swallows hard. “Nah. Of course not.” How could he anyway? This entire conversation is making Ian’s head spin. 

“Thanks, man.” 

“No problem.”

“Hey, you wanna move some of Mick’s shit and sit down? He should be back any minute.”

Time freezes. Ian’s entire body floods with ice. 

“Mickey’s... here?” 

“Yeah, he’s been here with me pretty much the whole fucking time. Went down to get some breakfast. Kind of surprised you didn’t see him on your way up.”

A lot of things suddenly come into sharp focus for Ian: he’s been up all night, he’s still wearing sweats and the old t-shirt and hoodie he’d tossed on after work the evening before, he must smell like shit and hasn’t brushed his teeth in twenty-four hours, his hair is probably a disaster. He’s not confident he can form complete sentences. He hasn’t had a cigarette in five days. He’s not remotely ready for any of this. Coming here was a colossal fucking mistake. 

He wants to see Mickey so fucking much, and he’s never been more scared of anything in his entire life.

Ian can feel his face heat and knows that Iggy must be able to see it too. He fumbles with his phone and pretends to look at the time. 

“Oh um. Shit, I’m late for my shift, actually,” he lies. “Gotta run.”

“Aww, man. That sucks. Mick’ll be bummed.” 

_Not likely_ , Ian thinks. 

“Glad you’re okay, Iggy.” 

“Yo, you should call Mickey later or something. Thought that’s why you were here actually,” Iggy says with a shrug, and Ian feels his face flame even hotter. 

“Yeah, uh, maybe,” he stammers. “Listen. Take care.” 

“Go save more lives, man.”

Ian bullets out the door.

He stops himself from actually running to the elevator, but only barely. As he passes the nurses’ station, the nice nurse shouts after him, “Hey! Thanks for coming by!”

Ian waves over his shoulder as he goes, his heart hammering.

*

It takes Mickey longer than he thought to find a box of Cocoa Puffs, which Iggy had specifically requested this morning when he’d emerged from his feverish fog and back into lucidity. He has to visit two different minimarts down the street from the hospital before he finds some. When he strolls back onto Iggy’s unit, he’s got a full bag of food in one hand and a large coffee in the other. 

“Hey, Mel. You want a donut?” Mickey calls as he approaches the nurses’ station. “Got jelly and glazed.”

Mel’s bearded face appears out from behind a computer screen. “You sweetheart. Jelly sounds fabulous,” he says. 

Mickey lets the _sweetheart_ roll off him; he owes Mel a lot for these last days, he can let it go. He stops long enough to hand over one of the fat jelly donuts he’s picked up in the cafe downstairs.

“Your brother had a visitor this morning,” Mel says through his first bite. 

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asks, grabbing his bag again. 

“Mm-hmm. Tall drink of water,” Mel adds, licking jelly off his fingers.

 _Probably Joey_ , Mickey thinks. Finally, someone else showing their fucking face. Though he can’t exactly imagine Mel thinking of Joey Milkovich as a ‘drink of water.’ To each his own.

“Thanks, man,” Mickey says, and heads down the hallway to Iggy’s room.

Iggy’s got his bed adjusted into a sitting position, and he looks so fucking much better. Mickey marvels again at how invested he is in Iggy’s progress. Doesn’t seem to be going away. 

“Got your damn cereal, you toddler.” Mickey sets down his coffee and drops the shopping bag on the floor, rummaging through it to pull out the Cocoa Puffs. 

“Hey, thanks Mick,” Iggy says. Even his voice sounds better, less slurred and tired. “I can’t eat another bowl of that fucking hospital raisin bran rabbit food.”

“I’ll see if Mel can get us some bowls,” Mickey says, clearing a spot on Iggy’s food tray for the milk and cereal box.

He hasn’t even looked up when Iggy casually says, “Hey, did you see Ian out there?” 

Mickey pauses his unpacking. “What?”

“Ian. He left like two minutes ago.”

Mickey can’t fucking believe his ears. “Excuse me? What the fuck are you saying?”

“Ian Gallagher? Your old boyfriend? Remember him?” Iggy says, and Mickey thinks he might need to punch his brother in the mouth while he’s laid up in a hospital bed. “He was checking up on me because he was actually there when I was gunshot and bleeding, just like I said. So ha fucking ha, bro. Told you.”

 _Tall drink of water_. Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Mickey’s body decides what to do before his brain can catch up. He makes a break for the door, running down the hallway to the nurses’ station. 

“Mel? Mel?”

“What’s wrong?” Mel asks from where he’s still on the computer and finishing his donut, his voice a practical calm.

Mickey can’t really catch his breath. “That visitor this morning? He a weird carrot-top, alien-looking dude?” 

Mel laughs. “He was a tall redhead if that’s what you mean. Iggy okay?”

Mickey’s chest aches. “Yeah, he’s fucking fine. You see him leave?”

“The redhead?”

“Fuck. The redhead. Yes,” Mickey says, rubbing his hand down his entire face, hoping that maybe this is all some sort of very vivid dream.

“Saw him headed toward the elevators a few minutes ago.”

Mickey doesn’t even think, just sprints off towards the elevators and punches at the down button over and over as hard as he can. When the car arrives, Mickey storms onto it, ignoring the startled faces of the three occupants already inside, jabbing repeatedly at the close door button to get the damn thing underway. 

His pulse is racing. Ian _fucking_ Gallagher. What the fuck?

The ride down is just long enough for Mickey’s mind to start a full-on freak out. Did Iggy not tell Ian he was coming back? Or did he tell him, and Ian bolted? 

Fuck. 

Mickey has absolutely no plan as he dashes off the elevator, just a vague sense that two minutes is not far enough ahead to be entirely out of the building yet. Ian could be anywhere. He scans the people sitting around in the airy entrance lobby. No.

He races for the sliding glass doors and then pulls up short as he steps outside.

Ian Gallagher is about a hundred feet away from him down the sidewalk, sucking down a cigarette like it’s his job.

It’s really him. Not a figment of Iggy’s imagination. Or his own. 

Ian hasn’t noticed him. Mickey stops moving, his chest heaving like he’s run for a mile, and stares. Ian’s taller, bigger than he was when Mickey went in. His hair is short again, no longer the floppy mop that used to hang in Ian’s face and tickle Mickey’s neck when they fucked. He’s kind of curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and arms folded up against the world, puffing away at his smoke. He looks tired, and older. He looks like a man. 

Mickey doesn’t know this Ian. 

He’s thought about seeing Ian again pretty much every day for almost four years. But he’s never imagined meeting like this, unexpectedly, at seven o’clock on a cold fall morning, surrounded by loitering strangers in front of a hospital. 

Mickey’s not ready. He needs to turn around and walk away.

He’s still staring as Ian stubs out his cigarette and looks up. Right at him. Their eyes meet and the world stops. 

Mickey can see Ian’s lips form his name. _Mickey_. 

Mickey’s not ready. 

*

Ian’s not convinced at first that his mind isn’t playing another cruel joke, making him see Mickey every fucking place he looks. But this Mickey illusion stares back at Ian for an endless, hanging minute, long enough for the ground to fall out from under Ian’s feet. 

_Mickey_. 

He’s just as much of a magnet as he has ever been; Ian couldn’t look away if he wanted to. A tremor runs through him remembering how it used to feel when they were still kids hooking up at the Kash and Grab and Mickey would only have to walk in the door to make Ian’s feel like his whole body was electric, like his nerves were lightning. 

He’s right there. 

Then, before Ian can get form another thought, Mickey abruptly turns and starts to walk away from him into the bustling morning. 

“Wait,” Ian breathes out, almost to himself. “Mickey. Wait.”

Ian gets his feet to cooperate after a frustrating moment of immobility, his mind screaming _Go. Go after him. Go._

Mickey is loping away from Ian at a good clip, so he accelerates into a jog as he pushes through a group of seniors unloading from a community transit bus. 

“Mickey!”

Mickey moves quickly out of the main traffic area of the hospital entrance, booking down the sidewalk and not looking back. Ian’s blood is up now. He starts to run.

“Mickey, Jesus! Stop.”

_Mickey Mickey Mickey._

Ian catches up to him right by a little pocket park built into the side of the massive hospital building. He gets a hand on Mickey’s shoulder to try and slow him down. Mickey stops at the touch, reels around to face Ian, and shoves him hard, with both hands, right in the chest. Ian stumbles back, but catches himself, too stunned by the entire situation to fight back.

“Hands off, asshole.” Mickey’s voice.

Luckily, there’s no one sitting on the park benches to witness this exhibition.

Mickey’s always been a solid fucking rock, but he’s broader and thicker now, as if the years have piled on muscle like tree rings. It takes every ounce of Ian’s self-control to not just grab onto Mickey’s shirt front and haul him in to see if he still smells the same. Fuck. _Mickey._ Ian can’t catch his breath. 

“You running from me, Mick? Really?” he huffs.

Mickey backs away, lengthening the space between them. “Oh, right. Running’s _your_ fucking gig.” 

Ian's chest aches. “Please just stop for a minute.” 

Mickey’s blue eyes blaze at Ian. “Why? Why, Ian? Fuck. You suddenly want to talk to me? After fucking forever?” 

He’s so beautiful. Ian hasn’t forgotten a line of his face. What the hell is he doing? How has this gone so fucking wrong? As he hesitates, trying to find his next words, Ian realizes something.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

Mickey pauses at that. He’s never been good at hiding from Ian when he’s been caught out. He rubs a hand (his _fingers_ ) over his face and nibbles at his lip, and Ian can’t breathe. “Iggy told me you were around,” he admits.

“Oh.” Ian can’t get a handle on this moment; it’s slipping through his fingers like sand. “Okay.” He drills his hands deep into his pockets.

"Thought he was full of shit," Mickey mutters, like he's talking to himself.

Ian swallows hard, feels himself steel up and set his jaw. “Didn't expect to see you either. When’d you get out?”

Mickey fidgets; he doesn’t meet Ian’s gaze. “Year and a half ago,” he says to the ground.

It’s a hard kick to the gut; a year and a half with no word. 

“Oh. I didn’t know,” Ian says lamely.

“How would you?” Mickey replies, with a pointed shrug, eyebrows high.

Ian staggers for a moment under the weight of mistakes that have piled on him when it comes to Mickey. He can never make up for it. He doesn't even know how to start. 

The silence stretches on for what feels like forever. Ian’s pulse beats hard in his ears. 

Mickey looks up at him then, expression determined, sucking in his lips and shaking his head very slightly. For a dizzying moment, Ian thinks Mickey might be about to reach out for him. But he doesn’t. 

“Nope,” Mickey says. “No. This right here? This is not how this is gonna go down.”

Ian shakes his head. “What?”

“Not on the street. Not before I’ve had my fucking coffee. No.” He holds out one arm as if Ian is about to rush him and he’s ready with a block. He pulls his gaze away and appears to focus on a patch of air just next to Ian’s hip. “I’m going back inside. Don’t fucking follow me.”

Ian’s whole being aches as Mickey shakes his head one more time and takes off back the way they had come towards the hospital entrance, lightly brushing past Ian’s arm as he strides past and sending a firework of sensation through Ian’s skin. 

“Can we try again?” Ian calls over his shoulder before he chickens out. He knows better than to turn around, but this can’t be it. It just cannot. _Mickey_.

It’s quiet for a terrifying stretch of seconds.

“Your number still the same?” 

Ian breathes out. 

“Yeah.” 

“Of course it fucking is,” Mickey mutters from behind him. “Damn boy scout.”

Ian stands still and breathes. As Mickey’s stomping footsteps fade into the distance, a little flare of hope burns hot in Ian’s chest. 

*


	5. Chapter 5

*

Ian sits alone and stunned for the next ten minutes on one of the park benches. Then he pulls out his phone.

 **Ian** _Can you take over for me at the hospital?_

 **Lip** _Frank still alive?_

 **Ian** _Think so. Still just waiting on tests. Room 512._

 **Lip** _Then I guess. You okay?_

Ian stares at the question for a minute before he replies. 

**Ian** _Just want a break. Having a fucked up morning._

 **Lip** _Need anything?_

 **Ian** _Just to not be here._

 **Lip** _Okay drama. Don’t tell me shit. You can take off. I’ll be there soon._

Ian rubs at his eyes. This has been a hell of a week, and having Lip in his corner has rarely been a bad thing, even when Lip’s being a prick. 

**Ian** _Bumped into someone._

Fuck. He can’t even text his name.

 **Lip** _Oh yeah?_

 **Ian** _Went shitty._

 **Lip** _You been up all night, right? Come home. Deal later._

 **Ian** _Thanks_

Ian wants Lip to know, but doesn’t actually want to deal with whatever he might have to say about it, so he hits send and then turns off his phone. Fuck it. He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t even go back into the hospital to tell anyone that he’s leaving. 

*

Mickey feels like he was just in a car crash. He gets back to Iggy’s room somehow, though when he gets there he realizes he doesn’t really remember how.

Iggy doesn’t look away from the TV as Mickey comes back in. “You find him?”

“Who?” Mickey says, just to be petty. He’s feeling fucking petty.

“Ian, moron.” 

Mickey wants to kick himself in the nuts, because his idiot self had gone _looking_ for that shitty moment he’d just had. He’d actually _run_. 

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey says as his slides his crap off of the chair and pulls the blanket Mel has left for him up to his chin. “What’re you watching?”

Iggy shovels in a big bite of Cocoa Puffs. “Morning show. Just started this cooking thing, making chili with pumpkin in it. Looks tasty.” 

Mickey stares up at the screen and doesn’t respond, his brain full of white noise. 

That was really Ian. He had been close enough that Mickey could push him away. Mickey had touched the sturdy, solid shape of him with his own two hands. 

He’d thought about Ian so often but he’d forgotten what it was actually like to be near him, that gut-flipping recklessness that Ian brought out in him that he always assumed would go away but never really did. It was so strong he’d almost said fuck it and just hauled Ian in to kiss that stubborn fucking mouth of his right there on the street, the same mouth that had said he would wait and then not spoken a single other word. 

Fuck. 

“We should make this sometime,” Iggy says, pointing up at the TV with his spoon. 

Mickey’s got real problems, like what to do with Iggy, and how to deal with his disappearing family, and getting back to work. But when Mickey had tried to walk away, Ian Gallagher had come after him. His skin itches and his phone sits heavy in his pocket.

*

Ian sleeps into the late morning. 

He wakes up more clear-headed but a little bit unreasonably angry, his teeth grinding to the thought of _a year and a half._ He gets dressed for a run and then checks his phone like it might be poisoned. But there’s only a message from that guy, Ronan, looking for another hook-up. Ian deletes him without replying.

It’s a crisp fall day, blue sky but cold enough to see his breath as he stretches. Perfect for a long run. His feet pound on the sidewalk, his muscles starting to loosen and calm with the rhythm, making space for his thoughts. 

He’s been pretty stable for a couple of years now, enough that he’s let himself imagine some sort of future for himself: an apartment, his job, his family, maybe a boyfriend someday, just someone chill to spend time with so he’s not alone. It’s enough. It’s more than he deserves after how much shit he’s put them all through. 

But if he’s honest with himself, he’s never really let go of the idea of Mickey Milkovich. And with Mickey he could never be just _chill_. Any illusion Ian might have had about that has been utterly shattered by three minutes on the sidewalk this morning, but the truth is he’d known that years ago when Mickey told Ian he loved him and Ian couldn’t say it back, even though he felt it in his bones.

He hadn’t been responsible enough back then to hold someone else’s heart in his hands. He hadn’t even been able to take care of himself, much less someone he actually loved. Walking away was the only way to keep himself from pulling Mickey right off the cliff with him, because there was no middle ground with Mickey Milkovich. Ian was never able to be anything less than all in with him, since he was fifteen years old.

Mickey’s been out of prison for a year and a half and his father just died violently and Ian doesn’t really know anything about him right now. It’s been over a year since Monica died, and Ian still feels it every day, her absence, permanent and brutal. 

Ian’s chest aches where Mickey’s hands had slammed into him. He’s left it in Mickey’s court for now. He’d promised he would wait. 

Just wait. 

When he pulls open the back door, Fiona is in the kitchen at the table having a cup of coffee and flipping through a magazine. She looks up when he comes in, her eyes wary. 

Ian sighs. “I’m fine, Fiona. I was just up all night.” Easier to get ahead than get defensive.

She purses her lips together and nods. “I know. You get some sleep?”

“Yeah.” 

Ian makes a point of opening the cupboard and shaking out his meds where Fiona can see him. 

“There’s still some coffee. I just made a new pot,” Fiona says. 

“Thanks.” Ian pours himself a mug, then slides onto a chair next to his sister, popping a pill in his mouth. He knows she only wants the best for him, even when it feels like the worst. 

“A cop stopped by to see you.” Fiona holds her coffee mug in both hands, her voice controlled, which Ian knows means she’s worried. 

Ian sips his coffee and swallows another pill. “I’m sure they’re just following up from the shooting.”

“Told him you’d call him when you got back. He left his number.” Fiona slides a card over to Ian, stamped with the Chicago police emblem. 

“I’ll do it later,” Ian says, grabbing the card. 

Fiona covers his hand with her own for a moment. “Be careful, huh? You’re doing so good. Getting pulled into this Milkovich shit. I’m just… be careful?” 

“Just part of my job, Fiona.” Ian can’t look at her. _Mickey Mickey Mickey._

She squeezes his hand once, and then lets him go. “I know, sweetface.” She stands and takes the mug to the sink. “Any more news about Frank?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Lip’s over there now.”

“I’ll call him. Have a shift until five. I’ll go over after that.”

Ian looks at Fiona for a minute. “Why do we still do this shit for Frank anyway? Go running to be there for him? Stay up all fucking night in the ER?”

Fiona shrugs. “He never stops being family, I guess. No matter how hard we keep trying.” She squeezes his shoulder once as she walks by and heads up the stairs. 

Ian sips his coffee, stares at his phone, and thinks about fathers. 

*

The first day of Iggy’s hospital stay, Mel took pity on Mickey and let him know a couple of good spots to sneak off to for a smoke where he wouldn’t get hassled. He’s been partial to a little empty courtyard off of the cafeteria since he can have a cigarette and pick up a snack and make it back up to Iggy’s room without being gone for too long. 

Iggy’s asleep again in the afternoon, his fever back up a little, which means Mel is checking in every half hour and Mickey is feeling cramped and antsy. He takes advantage of a brief lull in Mel’s attention to hurry down for a smoke, jonesing bad. 

The temperature has dropped since the morning, so Mickey pulls on his gloves and scarf as he heads outside, already tapping a cigarette out of the pack.

The courtyard isn’t empty this time. Someone is leaning against the far wall, one foot up against the concrete.

Fuck his life. It’s Lip fucking Gallagher. 

It’s too late to turn around. Lip glances up as soon as Mickey opens the door and looks at Mickey with those bug eyes of his and smiles and shakes his head like this is a joke they are both in on. 

Mickey grits his teeth and walks over, taking a pacifying drag of his cigarette. “Fucking hell. Can’t turn a corner in this place without bumping into one of you jerks.”

“Heard you were out, Mickey. Welcome back.”

Mickey can’t bring himself to look at Lip’s smug little grin. He leans up against the wall next to him so he doesn’t have to. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Lip nods up at the building. “Frank.”

Mickey’s not sure it makes him feel better or worse to know that Ian might have had another reason for being at the hospital earlier. “Shit. He okay?”

“Just suffering the consequences of years of being Frank Gallagher.”

Mickey breathes out. “Yeah, that’s a fucking life sentence.”

They smoke in silence for a minute. Then Lip says, “I heard about your brother. And your dad.”

Mickey’s throat closes up at the mention of Terry. “Not talking about that shit with you, Gallagher.”

“I know. You bump into Ian?”

Mickey feels himself flinch, his heart pounding. “Why the fuck would you think that?”

“Cause he’s the only other one of _us jerks_ who’s been around here?” Lip says, simply. 

Heat rises up through Mickey’s chest and neck and into his cheeks, his body a fucking disloyal bitch. He’s not enough of an idiot to think that Lip can’t tell. “You can fuck off with your nosy-assed questions.”

“So you did see him?”

“Fuck you, Philip.”

“Jesus, Mickey. I’m sure he was happy to see you too.”

“You’re an asshole.” 

For some reason, Lip sniggers a little at that and instead of leaving like he’s supposed to, he acts like Mickey’s just invited him to settle in for a friendly chat. 

“You know who I’ve been thinking about?” Lip says, all nostalgic like. “Ms. Lattie. Remember her? Fifth grade?”

It’s such a sudden change of subject that Mickey actually looks over at Lip to see what the fuck he’s up to. Of course he remembers Ms. Lattie. “Wasn’t she the one who never wore a bra?”

Lip’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment and he grins. “I do recall a certain amount of _movement_ when she’d lean over to check on our long division.”

Mickey breathes out a long plume of smoke. “Fucking gross, man.”

Lip actually laughs out loud at that. “Anyway, I was thinking about how she figured you out.”

Mickey’s improving mood is quashed by Lip’s nerve. “Oh, she figured me out? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Remember she put you in a reading group with me? We’d never been in the same reading group before.”

Mickey freezes, because what the fuck?

“We read _The Phantom Tollbooth_ , remember?”

Mickey does remember. It’s one of his clearest memories from that year. He’d been so fucking scared when she’d read out the group assignments, he can still feel the terror pulsing through his skin like it had happened yesterday. 

“I didn’t even know if you could read. We’d been in the same class for like, three straight years, man, and I didn’t know. None of those other teachers had bothered to find out.” Lip stubs out his cigarette against the wall and flicks the butt into a planter. “But you could. You even explained all the jokes to Ashley, and that kid Ben. All that word play. And you’d laugh sometimes when we were reading aloud. I’d never really heard you laugh before.”

Mickey feels like he’s being stripped naked. “What? That book was fucking funny.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Mickey flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the corner and pulls himself up to go back inside. No nicotine addiction is worth having to listen to this bullshit. 

“You got a damn point, Reading Rainbow?”

“The point is, Mick. She figured you out. And then I did too.”

He should just walk away. From Lip. From all the fucking nosy, prying Gallaghers. But something in him also really wants to know what Lip fucking Gallagher so smugly thinks he knows about him, so maybe he can punch the asshole in the face. He stops.

“What?”

“You’re not dumb, Mick,” Lip says. “You never were. I found out in fifth grade. I know damn well there wasn’t an essay I wrote for you later that you couldn’t have come up with yourself. I’ve seen you take care of your family. Fuck, I’ve seen you take care of _my_ family. So just…” Lip pushes himself up from his spot against the wall. “...don’t be dumb.”

Lip ends his little speech by straightening up and walking away across the courtyard. When he’s almost to the door, Mickey is able to get enough air in his lungs to speak. 

“Fuck your stroll down memory lane, Lip. I never even finished that fucking book, you know. Terry pulled me out of school for a month for some stupid job he needed all of us for. Remember?”

Lip looks back at him, his lips pressed together like he might have a lot more to say but isn’t going to. Mickey wants to slam him against the concrete wall. 

“You should finish the book, Mick. It has a great ending.”

Then Lip’s gone back into the monolith of the hospital. 

Mickey lights up another cigarette, trying to smoke away whatever shit Lip just tried to stir up with his stupid story. For some reason, the thought that circles his brain like a vulture is _Your dad died, idiot. Terry’s dead._

_Don’t be dumb._

*

Ian calls the number on the card Fiona gave him. It’s for an officer named Eliot who Ian vaguely remembers talking to at the station when he and Sue had gone in to give their statements. 

The guy gets cagey right away when he picks up his line and Ian explains who he is and why he’s calling. Ian tries to keep his concern from growing as the dude stutters through some dates when Ian might need to appear if they find the shooters and the case gets any traction. It’s all information that he already has written down and hung on the fridge, just in case. 

“Sorry, I was already told all of this,” Ian says. “Is there anything new? My sister said you stopped by the house?”

The line falls silent, and Ian considers hanging up, because if the police start acting weird with him for some reason, the last thing he’s going to do is say any shit over the phone that they can turn into cooked up evidence later.

“Sorry, I’m really doing this all wrong,” the guy says at last, moments before Ian was ready to disconnect. “I just…” his voice drops to a whisper. “This is totally out of left field but well… I thought maybe I could take you to coffee sometime?”

Ian actually looks behind him to make sure no one else is listening in, because… what the fuck?

“Are you... asking me out?” 

“I know I’m stepping over some lines here, but um… yeah?” 

Ian is so taken aback that he can’t get any words out at first. He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now, but if he takes a stab at it, it’s a mess of being flattered and confused. What he remembers of Officer Eliot, he’s a good looking man, dark hair, in decent shape. Ian’s type really, if he thinks about it in this new light. He’s obviously got a good job, and he’s brave enough to ask a guy out who he can’t even know for sure is gay. If he listens to his brain, which sounds a little like Fiona in his ear, he’d give this guy a shot. He’s probably a catch.

But his gut is in charge today. 

“I’m sorry, man. It’s really not a good time for me to do anything like that. But thanks.”

Eliot is quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. “You sure?”

Ian pictures hard blue eyes, and the promise of trying again. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Well, keep my card if you change your mind.”

Ian looks down at the card in his hand. “Maybe I will,” he says. Maybe he will. Maybe in a week or a month or a year, when he’s inevitably fucked everything up with Mickey forever, this guy could do. 

As soon as he has that thought, he rips the little card up in pieces and tosses it into the trash.

When the call ends, Ian clicks over to his texts, but there’s still nothing there. 

*

Iggy takes another turn for the worse in the evening, his fever spiking again. The doctor changes antibiotics and talks to Mickey about the fact that, even though they had worked hard at it during his initial surgery, some pieces of bullet or bone may still be in the wound and causing the complications. He might need another surgery. 

Combined with everything else going on, Mickey’s willpower is shot. 

He pulls out his phone and stares at Ian’s number again. 

He shouldn’t do anything now, when he’s tired and exposed and all of his defenses are down. But the only person he’s ever been able to allow in when he’s felt like this was Ian. So fuck it. _Don’t be dumb._

 **Mickey** _Finished my coffee. You still around?_

It’s twelve hours later. Ian won’t still be around. Mickey hits send anyway. 

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

Ian gets out of a hot shower that he’d hoped might slow down his thoughts for a minute, but instead of being just edgy and restless, he’s now edgy, restless, and clean.

Towel wrapped around his waist, he returns to his room and grabs his phone. He’s looked so many times in the last few hours that when he sees that there’s actually a text waiting for him, he has to do a double take. 

It’s from an unknown number. He holds his breath and opens it. 

_Finished my coffee. You still around?_

Ian reads it four times. 

He is suddenly acutely aware that he is naked except for one ratty old towel. Throwing his phone down on the bed, he rushes to his dresser to pull on some boxers, and then jeans and a t-shirt.

Properly armored, he checks his phone again. The text is still there.

It has to be him. Right? Ian reads the text one more time. 

When they were younger, Mickey never had the same phone number for long, when he even had a phone at all. He’d get burners from his dad or brothers that he had to ditch after a few days, and for a while there was a whole string of iPhones of questionable origin that Ian never asked more about. So it’s not surprising that this message is coming from a number Ian’s never seen in his life, with an 872 area code.

But it has to be him. It has to be. Ian steels up his spine and types a response.

**Ian** _Mickey? This you?_

He sits on the edge of his bed with his phone clasped in his hands, bare toes tapping at the floor. Minutes pass. Then a buzz. 

_Yep_

Something floods through Ian’s body, though he’s not exactly sure what to name it: relief or thrill or maybe panic? _Mickey._ With shaky fingers he adds Mickey’s name as a contact with this new number. 

There’s a million different things Ian wants to text back, but everything he keys in looks wrong. Before he figures it out, his phone buzzes again.

**Mickey** _You still at the hospital?_

**Ian** _No. I’m home._

There’s nothing more for long enough that Ian thinks that might be it for now, that maybe that is all either of them have in them for this evening. But then:

**Mickey** _You coming back here?_

The little hopeful flame in Ian’s chest flares to life.

**Ian** _I can._

Silence again. Nothing. Ian lays back on his bed and does some focused breathing to keep from spiraling, fighting how hard his brain wants to spin out on him. He stares at the crack in the ceiling.

Five minutes. Then ten. Then:

**Mickey** _Okay_

Ian leaps up and scrambles for his shoes. 

*

Mickey finds himself drifting into the exact spot outside the hospital where he’d first seen Ian having a smoke earlier in the day; he lights up himself. It’s good to get out of Iggy’s stuffy room for a few minutes. Ig is sleeping and out of it anyway, and his night nurse, Aisha, has gently suggested a number of times that Mickey should go home and get a real night of sleep since nothing is likely to change in the next few hours. 

He should. He should just go the fuck home and let Gallagher arrive and have to wait around for hours wondering where he fucked off to while he’s tucked in and getting some actual damn rest. 

Mickey leans back against the cool concrete of the hospital wall. He’s not going home. He was weak and exhausted and he texted Ian and now he’s gotta see this bullshit through. The little series of messages sitting on his phone doesn’t tell him much. If Ian actually shows up, he’ll find out what the hell he wants and then bug the fuck out.

The spot he’s laid claim to is excellent for seeing someone coming from a long way off; Mickey’s in no mood to be surprised again. He pulls himself up and paces, staying alert for the first hint of lanky ginger in the distance.

Of course, Ian might not be coming. Mickey puffs at his cigarette and shakes energy out of his fingers. He’s played this game before.

When Mickey finally sees Ian, walking briskly down the block, eyes on the pavement and hands in his pockets, all of his resolve evaporates. Ian’s an easy fucker to notice, long-legged gait and square shoulders, chin jutting out into the chilly night. Honestly, Mickey doesn’t know why everyone lingering outside the hospital doesn’t stare at him as he walks up; it’s like how no one pays attention to Clark Kent until he whips off his glasses. Unlikely.

There’s a moment, after Ian catches sight of him and smiles his crooked half-smile, when Mickey thinks maybe he could just walk up to him and grab hold of his stupid, gorgeous face, and just tell him everything that’s swirling in his head right now, pretend that the last few years never happened. Shit, that would be such a fucking relief. 

But the pounding of his heart keeps his feet nailed firmly on the pavement, and it takes all of his will-power just to keep his breathing even. 

“Hey. Hope you didn’t have to wait too long,” Ian says as he approaches. 

Mickey bites down on his response to that. Because, fuck.

“Nah. Just having a smoke.” Mickey stubs out ash on the sole of his shoe and tosses the butt into the planters to hide the shake in his hands.

There’s a pause and their eyes meet and Mickey can’t look away for a moment. His brother is delirious upstairs and his dad is dead and his family has fucked off, but Ian Gallagher has actually showed the fuck up for him. Mickey wonders if he moved closer, even a single step, if Ian might meet him halfway. 

But the moment passes in a blink, and then the two of them are left just standing there in an awkward silence, breaths making soft white fog in the chilly air. 

“You need to eat?” Ian asks.

Mickey looks over at an arriving car, just to have some excuse to look away. “I could eat.”

“Passed a 24-hour place down a block.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

Mickey pulls out another cigarette to give his fingers something to do that isn’t reach out for Ian’s skin. “You’re buying.”

*

They muddle through getting a booth and ordering two coffees and a couple of BLTs. Ian hasn’t eaten properly in 24 hours and he’s guessing Mickey hasn’t either. Honestly, Ian’s barely holding onto the thread of the moment, he’s buzzing so hard on Mickey just existing in the booth across from him. 

“Iggy doing okay?” Ian asks into the silence, hoping to start easy. 

Mickey chews at his lip and shakes his head. “Nah, he’s real sick.”

Ian’s heart sinks. “He’s worse since this morning?”

Mickey nods.

The server reappears with their drinks. They’re only a few seconds into this conversation and already Ian feels like he’s going to fracture. 

“Anything I can do to help?” Ian asks.

Mickey reaches for his coffee. “This helps,” he says, and takes a sip. 

“Okay.” 

They both focus on their coffee for a moment. Ian scrambles to come up with some sort of game plan for what’s next. But before he can, Mickey speaks. 

“He told me you helped him out. When it happened.” It sounds like it costs Mickey something to say that, but Ian’s willing to take whatever Mickey can offer.

“Tried to,” Ian says.

Now that Ian can actually take a moment to look more closely, he can see the markers of stress all over Mickey’s face: deep lines around his eyes, tensed jaw, chapped lips. He’s probably dehydrated. He’s fidgeting with his fork and staring at the tabletop. Ian’s hands itch to reach out, give him something more solid to grab ahold of.

“So,” Ian starts, because someone has to. “You got out of prison.”

“Good catch.”

“They let you out on good behavior or something?”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth actually twitches at that. “Fuck no.”

“So what happened?”

Mickey tilts his head. “You still never read the news?”

Ian frowns. “You were in the news?”

Mickey leans back in the booth and Ian can feel the air between them shift. They’re either gonna start actually talking to each other or they’re not, and it’s time to decide. Mickey’s fingers tap gently on the edge of the table; Ian can see his wheels turning. But then he breathes out and looks Ian in the eye.

“Judge for my case turned out to be a corrupt motherfucker. He got taken down by the Feds two years ago and they had to reverse a shitload of convictions.”

Ian lets out a breath he was holding. It’s not what he expects to hear at all. “What does that mean?”

Mickey reaches for his coffee. “Fucker liked to admit bullshit evidence, bend rules, all sorts of crap, so long as it would lock people up he didn’t like. Decided he was some sort of vigilante hero getting trash off the streets.” 

Ian does vaguely remember hearing about this story in the news. “He did that to you?” Ian had still been far too sick back then to attend Mickey’s trial or even follow what was happening. 

Mickey sips his coffee and nods, avoiding Ian’s eyes.

“So you’re just out. Not even on parole.”

Mickey bites on his lip and nods again. “Yep.”

“You never should have been in.”

Mickey looks at Ian, eyes so tired. “Nope.”

_Why didn’t you tell me?_ sits on Ian’s tongue, but he swallows the question down, pretty sure he’s not ready to know the answer. “Shit,” he says instead.

They both turn their attention back to their coffee again, Ian trying to process what Mickey’s just shared, his chest aching. 

“How’re you... doing?” Mickey asks, and there’s something in his tone that makes Ian look up, because angry, shitkicking Mickey he can deal with, but awkwardly polite Mickey makes him panic. 

“Pretty good.” He swallows hard. “I’ve held down a decent job for a couple years. Still living at home. Take my meds twice a day, if that’s what you’re asking.” _I hate it, but I do it,_ he almost adds, but stops himself.

Something passes over Mickey’s face as Ian’s talking, like a shadow. Maybe he’s feeling just as confused by the tone of this conversation as Ian is, because his expression shifts suddenly until he looks almost sentimental. “Fiona finally kick your ass to get you to take those fucking things?”

“You know she could. But no. Had to get really fucking low to finally kick my own ass.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says, his brows raised. “You were already pretty fucking low.” 

Ian’s heart pounds. “It got worse. For a long time, Mick.” 

Mickey stares at him, his eyes really damn blue. 

The server appears at that moment with their sandwiches. Ian couldn’t be more thankful for his terrible timing. He needs to come up for some air for a minute. Jesus.

“Need ketchup?” the kid asks as he sets down the plates.

Mickey looks up at the guy like he just noticed he was there. “Yes, we need fucking ketchup. Who the fuck would want all of these fries without ketchup?” He sounds so much like himself that, in spite of everything, Ian feels himself grinning down at his plate. 

“I’ll get it, sir,” the kid says, beating a hasty retreat to the counter to grab a ketchup bottle.

Ian glances at Mickey, and he can’t keep the affection from his voice. “You hate ketchup on your fries, Mick.” 

“You’ll use it,” Mickey says, as if that explains everything. He starts popping fries into his mouth, ketchup free. “Fuck, I’m hungry.”

Ian’s head is spinning. But Mickey’s still right there, their knees almost knocking under the table, and neither of them are running away. That’s as much as he could have hoped for. He picks up his own sandwich and takes a bite. 

*

_Don’t be dumb._

Mickey doesn’t really taste the food he’s eating. Ian’s big, freckled hands are right out on the table, and he’s having a hell of a time paying attention to almost anything else. 

Ian is stable and taking care of himself. He’s got a job and his family and undoubtably a fucking boyfriend, like he should. He’s big and broad, no longer the coked-out waif who told Mickey he didn’t know what love meant. He looks healthy. Mickey used to be able to pick this asshole up and carry him. 

Mickey still loves him, like no time has passed at all. He never stopped.

_Don’t be dumb._

“By the way, your brother is still an asshole,” Mickey says, his mouth full of fries, just to keep from lagging into meaningful silence again.

Ian quirks an eyebrow, looking up from his sandwich. “Which one?”

“Take a fucking guess.”

Ian grins that crooked half-smile again, and Mickey almost wants to cry. “You talked to Lip?”

“Saw him at the hospital. He told me about Frank.”

“Frank’s fine. Fiona texted me that he’ll be out tomorrow. He’s a cockroach, man. Nothing kills him.” 

_Eight bullets to the chest probably would,_ Mickey’s brain supplies unexpectedly, which knocks the wind right out him, like a kick to the belly. Fuck.

“What’d Lip say?” Ian continues.

Mickey tries to catch his breath. “Just some smug shit trying to prove what a fucking genius everyone thinks he is.” 

“Who says Lip’s a genius?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Elementary school teachers, apparently.”

Ian’s smile is so fucking bright Mickey can’t hardly look at him. “That sounds about right.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh, trying to get his body to settle back down. _Don’t be dumb._

“I miss this,” Ian says with a gentle chuckle. Then his face falls serious. “I missed this, Mick.”

Fuck. A flood of responses rattle through Mickey’s battered mind: _Then why the fuck didn’t you visit me?_ or _Not like I was hard to find,_ or _Fuck you, you don’t get to say that shit._

But he doesn’t want to drive Ian away. He really doesn’t. So he grits his teeth and balls his antsy hands into fists.

“Yeah,” he manages, pulling some air back into his lungs. “Me too.”

Something shifts in the air when he says it, like a pressure valve has been released. Ian’s hand rests on the table, and Mickey thinks again about reaching for it. 

He doesn’t.

*

Ian pays the bill, and they head out, walking side-by-side back up the block towards the hospital. Ian actually needs to go the other direction to get back to the L, but he’s not ready to walk away yet, and Mickey doesn’t mention it. 

It’s even colder now, the air biting at Ian’s cheeks and fingertips. If it was years ago, he’d be tempted to wrap his arms around Mickey and burrow into his neck to warm up, maybe try to make him laugh by tucking his cold fingers in under his shirt. He looks over at the soft skin behind Mickey’s ear.

Mickey clears his throat halfway up the block. “So… you were there?”

“Huh?” Ian asks, pulling himself back to the present.

“With Iggy and… my dad? When...”

Ian’s heart beat picks up, like a drum in his chest. He figured they’d talk about this eventually, but maybe not tonight. Not when things have been going so well. “Yeah. I was. I was on the 911 call.”

“You seen him shot?” Mickey’s voice is brittle.

“Yeah.” Ian doesn’t have any doubt who Mickey is talking about.

“You try to save him?” 

“I did. It’s my job.”

Mickey nods, still not looking Ian in the eye. “You there when he...uh...”

Mickey’s phone buzzes in his pocket. They both freeze. Ian knows exactly what Mickey was about to ask. His heart hurts, suddenly wondering what sort of shit Terry’s death has stirred up.

“Sorry. Fuck.” Mickey awkwardly grapples his phone out. Ian watches as Mickey thumbs on his screen. “I gotta get back.” 

Ian realizes something. “Where’s the rest of your family anyway? You here alone?”

Mickey doesn’t look up from his phone. “I got it.” 

The shadowy glow from the streetlights really emphasizes the dark circles under Mickey’s eyes. “You should go home, Mickey. Get some sleep,” Ian says.

Mickey shakes his head, still looking at his phone. “Can’t just leave Iggy.”

“I can stay.” Ian says it without even thinking.

Mickey looks up at him finally, brows pulled tight in confusion. “What?” 

Now that he’s said it, it’s so obviously what needs to happen Ian can’t believe he didn’t think of it until now. “I’ll stay with him. If anything happens, I’ll call you.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” 

Ian hasn’t seen Mickey in years, but he still knows him well enough to hear that was not a no. He smiles a little to himself. _Mickey Mickey Mickey._

“Just go. We’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”

“Fuck, Ian, I…”

“Go now before I wise up and change my mind, Mick.”

Before his eyes, Ian watches Mickey allow himself to actually collapse into how tired he is, a wave of weariness slumping through his body, making his shoulders shift and his head wobble. He must have been working overtime to hold himself up through their meal.

“Train’s that way, asshole,” Ian says, indicating with a nod of his head. 

*

Sitting stunned and confused on the train home, all that Mickey can get his mind to process is that when he gets back to the hospital in the morning, Ian will still be there.

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a slightly different approach just for this chapter! Enjoy a brief foray into some outsider POVs before we head back into our boys’ heads in the next chapter.

*

Aisha is a couple of hours into her night shift, finished with rounds and notes, coming out of a blood draw with anemic Mrs. Liang, when she sees the newcomer. He’s standing at the end of the corridor looking at his phone. The hallway lighting isn’t very bright at this hour, but even in the dimness she can see his gorgeous red hair. She’s always had a bit of a thing for redheads. 

He must hear her, because he looks up and smiles, then nods his head towards room 827. Milkovich. That’s good. Maybe he’s another brother? Aisha had been trying earlier in her shift to get that sweet Mickey to go home and sleep. In her ten years of nursing she’s seen her share of family members burn themselves out caring for a patient and forgetting to care for themselves, and that boy was on the sure road to meltdown. Besides, no one should have to spend more than one night in the miserable chairs the hospital provides for visitors, but he’s a stubborn one. 

Aisha smiles back at Red Hair, but there’s not a moment for introductions. It’s time for her next med pass. 

*

Red Hair is in Iggy’s room when Aisha arrives with his medication a short while later. He’s sitting in the chair that she’s started to think of as ‘sweet Mickey’s’ after her first two night shifts with the brothers earlier in the week. 

It’s always disappointing when she returns from her off days to find that a patient who had been doing well has taken a turn. Her heart had hurt this evening when Mel shared Iggy’s set-backs during their meeting at shift change.

“Good evening,” Aisha says to the visitor with a smile, hoping they won’t wake Iggy.

“Hey,” Red Hair says, awkwardly standing up as she enters. “Do you need me to leave?”

“Not at all. Iggy just needs his next dose of meds.” Aisha glances over at the man and, sweet heavenly father, he’s quite a looker. 

He lowers himself back into the chair and says, “I’m Ian.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ian. I’m Aisha, Iggy’s nurse tonight. I’ll be in and out if you stay a while. You let me know if you two need anything, okay? The call button is right there.” Aisha preps Iggy’s IV antibiotic as she talks, trying not to get distracted by this _Ian’s_ ridiculous chin and big eyes. Goodness.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Ian says, as if she’s asked. He sounds like he’s trying to prove something.  


“That’s wonderful,” Aisha replies, hoping to be reassuring. “You are welcome. It makes such a difference for patients to know that their friends and family are here for them. Is his sweet brother still around as well?”

Ian doesn’t respond right away, and when Aisha glances over, he’s sucking both of his lips into his mouth as if unsure what to say. “Uh, Mickey you mean?”

Aisha smiles as she finishes with the IV and reaches for a new saline bag. “That’s the one.”

Ian stammers a bit with his reply. “Uh, no. I got him to go home for a while, if that’s okay. He looked beat.”

“You got that man to actually leave the premises?” Aisha says, giving Ian an appraising look. Maybe not just a pretty face. “I’ve been trying for hours. Days, actually.”

She doesn’t know this _Ian_ at all, but even in the dim light she can see that his throat and cheeks redden at her words. 

“I told him I could stay instead, but I don’t want to be in your way.”

“You are not in my way at all. You just make yourself comfortable and stay as long as you like.” 

As Aisha finishes up and heads out, she glances back to see Ian pick up his phone again. She can’t help wondering who he’s texting.

*

Aisha can’t deny that she’s been curious about the two Milkoviches since the beginning. Iggy had come into the ER a mess: gun shot wounds, filthy, enough oxy in his system that he must have been feeling no pain, and a blood alcohol level of 0.12. Drunk, high, and shot three times. Not to generalize, but she’s seen this story before.

But his withdrawal symptoms had been fairly mild the first few days, so maybe he wasn’t as much of a chronic user as he’d appeared, and then his brother had showed up. And aside from a potty mouth and some aggressive finger tattoos, Mickey had been nothing but a gentleman. He’d given his brother a haircut and a shave, for goodness sake, and would hardly leave his side. He smelled like the men’s grooming section at Walgreens. 

Maybe this story could end differently?

Now this _Ian_ added to the mix? Aisha has _questions_.

Her call button rings from room 825, probably her new patient Leroy feeling nauseous again, and she tells her nosy self to give it a rest for the moment. 

*

The next time Aisha stops by room 827 is for a vitals check about an hour later. Iggy is improving, thank goodness, but he’s still out of it; his fever is going down and his heart rate is back in the normal range. Ian is still there, flipping through one of the books Iggy’s brother had been reading earlier between nature shows and soaps.

“Glad you found something to interest you. Mickey must have left that behind,” Aisha says as she folds back the blankets from Iggy’s leg so she can check the wound site and change the bandage. 

“This is Mickey’s?” Ian asks, sounding rather bewildered and turning back to the cover as if more explanation will be found there. Upside-down she can read the title is _Electrical Wiring_ , before Ian flips the book back open again.

“He was pouring over that book a few days ago, so I imagine so.” Aisha shakes her head and gets back to work on Iggy. “Want to let you know that I will be removing the covering from Iggy’s leg wound, in case that will bother you.”

“You sure?” Ian asks. 

“It doesn’t bother everyone,” she says, not looking up.

“No. Are you sure this book is _Mickey’s_?” He’s staring at the book like it has suddenly translated itself into Mandarin. 

“Oh. Yes. The others too,” Aisha says, nodding towards the pile of books and manuals on the floor. She watches Ian look down and then crouch down to eye the stack of books warily.

Her patient moans a little and shifts in his bed, so she refocuses on her efforts to remove his bandaging. She’s relieved to see the angry red streaks that had previously spread across his thigh have all but disappeared and the swelling at the injury site is reduced as well. She cleans and empties his drain and draws new borders around the redness and swelling with a marker so she can track changes.

When she peeks over at Ian, she finds that he’s standing, still holding Mickey’s book, and staring closely at what she’s doing. He must have a strong stomach. She’d had a few light-headed moments in the early days of her career with wounds like this. 

“You don’t mind?”

When he replies, Ian’s voice is sort of flat and detached. “I’ve seen people shot.” 

That’s not what she’s expecting to hear from this man who, despite the late hour, looks like he just came back from a photoshoot for _Men’s Health._

She isn’t sure how to respond without prying into this stranger’s life, so she clumsily avoids it. “Well, this leg is looking so much better than even a few hours ago. I think he’s on the mend.” 

Ian breathes out at her side. “That’s good. That’s great. Mick’ll be relieved.”

Aisha adds that casual _Mick_ to her growing file of wonders. 

*

Iggy is awake at her next check. He’s still glassy-eyed and sweaty, but his eyes are open and his hands are softly kneading at the blanket on his chest. He is staring over at Ian, who has fallen asleep in the chair. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Iggy,” Aisha says quietly. 

Iggy frowns and doesn’t look over at her. “Is this guy really here?” he says, like he doubts his own eyes.

Aisha pats him gently on his good leg. “He sure is. Been here for a few hours now.” She smiles and nods, wondering if he’s really coming out of his delirium or not. 

“Where’s Mickey?”

“He went home to sleep for a bit.”

Iggy is still staring at Ian, who hasn’t stirred. “Does he know he’s here? He didn’t think he was real before.”

“Do you mean Mickey? I think Mickey knows that Ian is here with you. Is that important?”

He finally looks over at her. “Yeah, course it’s fucking important.” His voice is still very slurred.

She grins at him encouragingly a moment, hoping he might add something more, but he just sags back into the pillows looking worn out.

Aisha gives up and bustles around the bed, checking in on Iggy’s vitals, trying to suppress her growing curiosity about who this visitor is. Her movements must make enough noise to rouse the poor man. Ian stirs in his chair and opens his eyes. 

“Shit, I must have dozed off,” he says, stretching and sitting up. “Everything okay? Oh, hey. Iggy, you’re awake.”

“Ian, man. You keep fucking turning up.” Iggy’s sound exhausted, but he’s awake and aware and his leg continues to improve. It looks like they’ve gotten ahead of the infection again, thank god.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Ian says. Aisha can’t be sure but he almost sounds nervous. 

She moves to the foot of the bed to do a check on Iggy’s sensation. “Iggy, hon, I’m going to touch your foot and leg in a few different places and you tell me if you can feel it, okay?” 

“What?” Iggy suddenly looks much more awake, his eyes wide. “Don’t fucking tickle.” 

“I’ll do my best, hon,” Aisha says, amused. She glances over at Ian and catches the quickest little sweet expression that passes over his face.

“You sound like your brother,” Ian says to Iggy. Iggy frowns at that, and stays stiff and skittish throughout the brief check. But Aisha proceeds, and he stays “yep,” to every part of his calf and foot that she checks.

“Good work. All set. Remote’s right there if you want the TV on, boys,” Aisha suggests as she finishes up, trying to keep her nosy wondering to herself. But _damn_ she has so many questions.

“You wanna watch something?” she hears Ian ask as she steps out of the room.

*

Mel arrives to take over from Aisha at seven in the morning. He’s brought his usual venti latte with three extra shots and six pumps of vanilla that makes the whole nursing station smell like a cupcake. 

They settle into their meeting, Aisha getting him caught up on each of the patients. She’s starting to pack up to go home, thinking how it’s been a pretty routine night, when she remembers the handsome man now gently snoring in the chair in room 827.

“You know about the visitor who’s been in all night with Iggy Milkovich?”

She’s pleased to see Mel perk up considerably at the topic. They’ve worked together for a long time, and Aisha knows Mel can be just as nosy as she is. 

“It’s not Mickey?” Mel asks. 

“No,” Aisha says. “This _Ian_ fellow apparently convinced Mickey to go home and _rest_.” She raises her brows high.

“Did he? Ian, huh?” He takes a long sip of his coffee. “Wait.” Mel’s eyes narrow. “Is this guy a tall redhead?”

Aisha eyes her friend suspiciously. “Now how would you know that, Melvin?” 

“No need to full-name me, Aisha Johnson.” Mel grins at her from behind his computer screen. “He was here yesterday, too.”

“Oh?” Aisha says.

Mel talks as he types, getting logged in and ready for his day. “Yeah, in the morning. Booked out of here like he was late to something before I could talk to him. Mickey ran off after him.” 

“Did he?” 

“He did.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“Maybe it was a little.”

They both pause and stare at each other. 

“Well, it’s none of our business who he is,” Mel says after a minute, waving a hand past his face as if clearing away the thought that they might be drama-adjacent.

“No, indeed,” Aisha agrees, giving Mel a significant look. “None at all. I definitely wouldn’t want an update about him when I get back this evening.”

“You forgetting you’re married in the face of all that red hair?”

“Melvin, that boy looks like a Disney prince, and I have ‘Disney prince’ on my approved cheat list with Jamal, right between Pharrell and Sidney Poitier in 1963.” Aisha grabs her thermos and purse and heads for the elevators. “But it’s none of our business,” she shouts back over her shoulder.

*

Mel is out in the corridor organizing his cart when Mickey appears. He hears him before he sees him, heavy footsteps coming fast. 

“Shit, I overslept. Everything okay?” Mickey asks as he approaches, almost at a run, carrying a plastic bag in hand. 

“Morning, Mickey. He’s doing better. I’ll be in for my rounds in just a few minutes and I can get you fully updated.”

“Fuck, okay.” Mickey stalls for a moment outside Iggy’s room, breathing hard. 

“Glad you went home for a bit, Mickey,” Mel adds while he’s still standing there. “Aisha told me it was a real quiet night for him. Think he’s sleeping again.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, but Mel gets the feeling that Mickey isn’t really listening. 

“Your friend Ian’s still in there.” 

Mickey eyes are wide, suddenly focusing his gaze on Mel for a moment. “He is?” 

Mel smiles, thinking that Aisha is definitely on to something. “Mmm-hmm.” 

Mel watches Mickey take a long breath in and out and run his hands through his hair before he pushes at the door to his brother’s room.

*

Mel’s been a nurse for six years now, and he loves it; he loves the variety, the pace, all of the important life moments he’s been there to support people through. His favorite patients are the ones who stay a while, who he really gets to know, and though that often means they are the sickest, they are also the group it is so satisfying to see fully recover. He gets attached to them, to their families, and if he’s honest, that’s the part of the work he loves the most. 

But there’s a line, and he knows how to navigate it. People sometimes latch onto him. He’d worried about that for a minute with Mickey, who seemed to think he was subtle but who had thoroughly eye-fucked him once he’d emerged enough from the fog of being at the hospital to notice that Mel was there. Mel’s not foolish enough to think Mickey’s attention was anything other than a passing whim because he was helping his brother in a tough situation, but it’s fun to flirt; no harm in it. Mel’s not a part of their family, and in a few days, Iggy will be discharged and Mel will never see either of these boys ever again. 

So he knows better than to eavesdrop. He really does. He’s not involved. But he’s standing right there, so it’s more _overhearing_ than eavesdropping. Really. It is. 

“Mick. Hey.” That must be Ian’s voice? Mel tries to focus on the equipment he’s sorting. 

“Didn’t know if you’d still be here, Gallagher.” That’s Mickey. 

“I said I would.”

Either their voices drop or it’s quiet for a long moment, because Mel can’t hear anything more for a minute.

“You look like you got some rest.” Ian again. 

“Yeah. Some.”

“Good. You look good, Mick.”

It’s quiet again, and Mel can actually feel his own pulse in his chest. Then Ian’s voice breaks the silence.

“I was just going to get going…”

“Wait. Fuck. Ian. You don’t have to do that.” 

Mel hasn’t known Mickey for very long, but he’s definitely never heard him sound soft before, even when they’ve had to talk seriously about Iggy’s dodgy prognosis. 

_Shit_ , Mel thinks. He really shouldn’t be listening to this. 

“No?” 

“Just. Sit for a damn minute?”

Someone, probably Ian, huffs out a little laugh. “Okay. But there is no way I am sitting back down in that chair. I need a chiropractor after last night. Don’t know how you’ve been doing it, Mick.”

“More comfortable than some of the crappy ass places I’ve had to sleep most of my life. Or that piece of shit single you had forever.”

 _Huh,_ Mel thinks, feeling himself blush. He tries to focus on counting syringes. 

“Guess we both need chiropractors, then,” Ian says. 

“Yeah, fuck. Maybe so.”

There’s the sound of shifting around, like maybe someone has taken a seat. Mel has almost finished his prep work, and he’s half relieved and half distressed that he’s going to need to walk away soon. 

“You get breakfast?” That’s Mickey.

“Nah. I was gonna grab something on my way home.”

“I picked up donuts.” Mel can hear the crinkle of the plastic bag Mickey was carrying. “Chocolate cream.”

“Love those. Thanks.”

Okay, Mel can’t take it. Mickey knows this guy’s donut preference and mattress history? He needs to text Aisha. 

“Fuck, man. You didn’t have to do any of this shit.”

“I know. Wanted to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I did. I do.”

Mel realizes he’s lost his count again and he’s going to have to start all over. Damn. The voices in the room go quiet, and Mel tries to keep his attention on his work. 

“So. What’s with all of the books about electrical wiring and sh…?”

But Ian’s voice is interrupted by a chime on someone’s phone, and then there is a groan which Mel recognizes as Iggy, probably waking up and needing some pain meds, and shit, he’s late for his next rounds.

The last thing Mel hears on his way up the hallway to his station is Iggy’s sleep-slurred voice saying, “Mick, look. See? Your Ian’s really fucking here, asshole.”

When Mel gets back to the nurses’ station, there’s a donut waiting for him on the counter. He grins down towards room 827 and grabs his phone to text Aisha.

*


End file.
